In Difference
by holmesloafer
Summary: Katniss thinks the road to recovery requires indifference, but Peeta thinks otherwise. Will he succeed in convincing Katniss that together, they can still move on? They're survivors after all. Read and review!
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

"_Always."_

A memory resurfaces, one of being under a deep haze of sleep syrup. A memory. It's all I have left. For nothing could be farther from the truth.

I jolt upright, awakening to darkness. I find myself in my living room, when I hear a crash from, I assume, the front porch. Probably that darn cat. As if in answer to my previous notion, there's a knock on my door. After a few stretches and rubbing the drowsiness away from my eyes, it hits me_. Cats can't knock._ I stumble my way to the clock, almost stepping on a glass shard barefoot. I look a little closer, and I see it's that plate I threw at the wall some week ago, out of misery. Brushing off the increasing urge to clean it up, I squint my eyes, trying to figure out the time. It's not even five o'clock in the morning. _Who'd knock __at this hour?_

To be terse, people generally welcome to come in don't knock. They just stride in, for whatever purpose. Case in point, Greasy Sae and her granddaughter provide food. Haymitch occasionally asks for liquor whenever the train from the Capitol is delayed. The postman, well, he used to knock but he eventually learned to just leave the mail on my doorstep. Anybody else can screw off.

I sigh, trudging up the stairs to my room. Halfway there, there's another knock, this time with more urgency. I halt, frustrated. _Go away_, I think, inwardly groaning. The knocking intensifies, and I reason out with myself that I could pretend I'm asleep since no one sane enough would be awake at a time like this anyway. _Oh, that's right. I've never been considered sane since.. a long time ago._ I shake off the unwelcome train of thought beginning to form in my mind. I'm already miserable enough, even without those wretched memories.

After a few minutes of pondering at the staircase landing, the knocking stops. _Finally. He gave up._ I'm suddenly put up short, trying to take in the meaning. _He? How'd I know it was a 'he'?_ _Or was it just a silly guess?_ Curiosity surges through me, and I feel an irrational impulse to open the door. I tread down the steps and slowly through the accumulating mess on the floor, as silent as a pebble. I find myself smiling, in spite of myself, remembering who walks as if participating in a stomping competition. The time we were hunting in the woods in the first Games, and how irritated I was because he was scaring off the game… _Dammit. That's the third time I thought about him in a quarter of an hour._

My hand rests on the table, supporting myself, while the other clutches my stomach, as if to ward away the dull ache threatening to return. I take deep breaths to calm myself. _This wasn't supposed to happen. Forget, forget, forget, _I chant to myself, as if I'll end up convincing myself once I've said it enough times. When I'm more or less composed, I continue to the door. The cold, harsh wind hits me the second I open it, and I feel so exposed with only a robe to clothe me.

There's no one there.

I bend over to pick up the mail scattered on the doorstep, and I can't remember the last time I collected them. There's a thick stack once they're all in my hands, and I can't help scanning through them. Mostly from Dr. Aurelius, several from Plutarch, one from my mother, and some occasional bills. I catch sight of one near my feet, one I must have missed. The handwriting hits me in the gut with its familiarity. The dot above the i's, the curve of the e's, the slight fancy tail of the p's. And I can't help it. Next thing I know I'm seated on the porch, breathing raggedly. I clutch tightly to the letter in my hand, crumpling it. I only realize I'm freezing once I hear my teeth chattering. But I'm numb, whether from the cold or the shock, and I'm left motionless.

I'm going frantic in my head, but I'm helpless, really. Nothing but a broken mess of a person, trying to recover from wounds that will never heal. I can't exactly comprehend why something as simple as this letter caused a breakdown, but now that it has happened, I don't know what to do. The logical part of me is telling me to go back to my house before I freeze to death. But I can't go back there. It's not home; it doesn't provide that comforting feeling. More like a prison really. A place to be alone with my desolate thoughts, and nightmares that I can never run away from.

_An escape. Is that too much to ask for?_

For who knows how long, I sit there, my despair at its peak. Eventually my breathing's even, and I can feel my fingers, never letting go of the its hold on the letter. _The letter. The letter that has already caused me so much grief, without so much as a look at its contents. _I notice the sun's already rising, but it doesn't take away the dread I feel, not like how it used to when I was a child and everything seemed right.

It's just a start of another day for the district. It amuses me to see them going about in their normal lives, as if nothing bad just felt like I was screaming the whole time, writhing in internal agony. _It was all in my head, _I think. Easy enough to not as easy to forget.

Rising, the rest of the letters fall from my lap to the porch, adding to the clutter. I sigh. My house is becoming increasingly similar to Haymitch's, tidiness-wise, and that's saying something.

Suddenly, an idea hits me. An escape. I want an escape. And I know exactly where I can get one.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I plod along the damp path to his house, stuffing the letter in my pocket. I don't even wonder if he's awake or not. A bucket of water is always present.

After taking a breath of clean air, I open the front door. Sure enough, the house is in chaos. Shirts, trousers, belts, rags, ties and whatnot strewn across _everywhere_. The television, the sink, the cooking pot, the small shelf of books, and of course, the floor. My nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Oh boy, would you look at that." he slurs. His hair's unkempt, and so is his beard. His shirt's soiled that I can't even figure out its natural color. Slumping on a chair with his grimy feet up on the table, drinking his fourth bottle of booze, is Haymitch. I cross my arms across my chest as if to protect and hold me together.

"There's nothing particularly pleasant to look at in this filth of a place of yours." I comment, leaning back against the wall. I want to sit down, but I don't trust his furniture, nor all the vermin that could be hiding in them.

"Ever the lady." he chuckles, after finishing his bottle. He stands up to get another one, and he stares at me, grinning drunkenly. "Sit down, sit down, please, sit down. We don't want your little prissy feet to get exhausted now, do we?" he laughs carelessly at his remark, and I can't help feeling irritated. But I sit down anyway, right across him.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Everdeen?" he asks, mockingly. He flings his feet up, and they end up a few inches from my face. I impulsively flinch, but this causes him to double up in laughter.

"I wanted a drink, actually." I say, trying to sound indifferent. He doesn't buy it.

"Welcome to the club." he smirks. "Finally throwing away your pride, huh? Not feeling so strong anymore, are we, girl on fire?" he sneers. Sensing my tension at the old name only causes him further amusement.

He rises up again and comes back with a clear bottle, and the liquid inside equally as transparent. "Here. Strong enough to get you hung over, but not to knock you out." he hands it to me, his eyebrow raised, and I know it's a challenge. I immediately drink it just to show him up, but as soon as I do I know it's a mistake. The alcohol scorches my throat, and the throbbing in my temple quickens. I suddenly panic, wondering if I'll end up losing my voice after this.

Haymitch glances at me, and something in my face must have registered my emotions, however determined I had been to remain stoic. "You alright, sweetheart?" he chortles with a wink. I reward him with a scowl, which was more of a grimace resulting from the alcohol's effect. I down another swig of it, and already my head's pulsating painfully. Wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I can already hear Effie lecturing me on my manners. Like hell they mattered. But thinking about Effie oftentimes led to thinking about certain people, so I brush it off with another throat-searing gulp of liquor.

"You're not turning out so bad, for a beginner. Maybe you'd care to join me more often." he says with a smirk. I roll my eyes, but regret it instantly. It only adds to the fact that my whole vision's swirling around me. But we all know damn well he prefers his solitude. And so do I, if the alternative would be _his_ company. But if it was someone else, I might consider…

I smack my bottle back on the table. That's the fifth time in less than a day. I pinch the bridge of my nose to calm myself for I've started hyperventilating. _Forget, forget, forget._ But I can't forget. And I'm uncertain if I even want to.

I guzzle the rest of the alcohol in a single breath. When it's all empty, I'm left gasping for air. The table, the chairs, the bottles, they all seem to rotate in an illusory manner and so I lean my head on the table and close my eyes, but find I'm unable to reopen them due to the excruciating pain in my temple.

That's when I realize I'm crying.

_No more tears. _That's what I vowed after that day I yelled at Buttercup. To Prim, to Rue, to Finnick, to my father, to myself. The Capitol, the phrase retaining its awful glory in my head, doesn't deserve the satisfaction to know it succeeded in breaking me. Almost every day since then, I kept the emotions well hidden beneath a mask of lies.

Once, I even succumbed to the pills Dr. Aurelius recommended for my episodes of depression. They definitely helped, as I could no longer feel emotion. Not sadness, not despair, not misery. But not any positive energy either. Neither feeling tired nor energetic, I'd just lay on my bed and stare out my window until the effects of the pills wore off. Then I'd take another handful of them and consume them with a glass of water and do it all over again.

This went on for a few days and I never left my room, not even for food. At one time I found myself staring at a tree from my yard, when a mockingjay perched on its branch. Memories flooded through me, numbly of course, but memories all the same. Of my father and his sweet, clear voice. Of him and my mother and the smiles I witnessed them share. Of her after his death. Emotionless, staring into oblivion, turning a blind eye to our starvation and suffering.

_Crap, I'm becoming weak. Just like my mother._

I sat up then, and disgust filled every bone in my body. Realizing the pills' work must be done, I reached for the bottle resting on the desk out of habit. But my hand twitched and the bottle fell over. My feelings were only starting to make sense then, and at that moment repulsion was all I could fathom. Repulsion at her and her vulnerability. _Love_, she had reasoned. Scoffing at the reminiscence, I immediately grabbed the bottle and headed towards the toilet and threw it in, before racing downstairs to a drawer in the kitchen where I stashed all the medicine Dr. Aurelius gave me. Pills that varied in color and purpose, syrups for common colds, and a few hypodermic needles for extreme cases, all of them I seized and made to follow in that loathed bottle's footsteps. I flushed them all down after I spat on them for good measure.

_Capitol products. We're all worthless._

And I threw a fit, breaking expensive plates and vases, porcelain cups that were gifted to me for my engagement and a few glass jars from my mother, thus the disarrayed state my house is left in. I scattered unopened history books, velvet chairs I've never had the modesty to use, and pieces of fabric that I couldn't recognize because by then the tears had started to blur my vision.

As if to recompensate for the emotionless days I'd recently endured, every single emotion hit me with a pang altogether, and I slumped down the wall, sobbing unintelligibly for hours. I felt so wretched, so helpless, so miserable, that I regretted discarding the bottle. And I hated myself for it.

That was the last time I cried, before today. Again that feeling of hopelessness engulfs me. Maybe history does purposefully repeat itself.

I can't stand it. My emotional instability. Still clutching the empty flask, I throw it at the floor. The _clank, _however loud, does not cause Haymitch to stir. I envy him. I desire nothing more than to shut out the world. But life never gives you what you want.

"Hey Haymitch, here's your loaf. I thought we could-"

Drowning in my tears, and the liquor's consequences of course, I hear his voice. _Peeta_. I even heard footsteps and the slamming of a door. And it's enough to bring my walls down, the walls that I've taken several months and depressing thoughts to build. The sobbing continues with more fervor. _Forget, forget, forget, dammit. _I fling Haymitch's bottles to the ground, cursing the Capitol, Snow, Coin, Peacekeepers, my mother, Gale; anyone to blame. Mourning for things I can't change until all the bottles have been broken, along with some plates and bowls I found in the cabinets.

"Haymitch is gonna kill you for this, you know."

_Leave me alone_, I think. _Can't you see I've been fine before you bothered my thoughts?_

"Not real." I whisper. I cover my ears, close my eyes and shake my head vigorously, before falling down on my knees. Hands hold my arms, and they lift me up to stand again, but clearly noticing I'm too weak on my own because they don't let go.

"You'll hurt yourself." the voice says. _Peeta's voice. _I shudder, my eyes opening to find blue eyes with emotion. Concern? No. Pity.

I flinch from how realistic this nightmare is. But I don't want to wake up. Not yet.

"Not real." I say, loudly this time. I squirm from his grip and hug my sides, trying to hold myself together. I want closure. And this is the perfect opportunity, even if isn't real.

We stare each other down, his face expressionless, and I realize I have to initiate it. I take a deep breath, and walk up to him, not releasing his gaze.

"Not real." I repeat clearly, when I'm only a few inches from his face.

"Real." he says.

"Not real." I shout. He doesn't wince, his face still full of apathy.

"Real." he replies tiredly, as one would be with an incapable child.

"Not real." I whisper, my eyes brimming with tears. I wanted it to be real. I wanted him to be real. I wanted to know, in the deepest pits of my heart, that it was all real. The promises of "Always" longing to be relived, the yearned embraces that held me together when I thought I was hopelessly left in pieces forever, the kisses… _No. Not the kisses. Not the false ones anyway._

He holds my shoulders and shakes me. The tears start spilling, and my eyesight's only distinct enough for me to identify his blonde hair.

"I'm real, Katniss." he says, desperation breaking his voice, and I could sense he was on the verge of tears. "I'm real."

"Not real, not real, not real!" I yell, covering my ears once again. I want to believe him, his illusion, whatever it is, but the disappointment certain to come afterwards isn't worth it. _But it is worth it, you idiot. _I silence the fallacious voice in my head by crouching down and banging my head on the ground.

His hands find my waist and lock in place, propping me up on my feet as I thrash in his arms. I step on his feet, kick his legs, push and shove at him and his hands, but his grip remains firm and secure. Stability.

No, life doesn't give you what you want. Just what you need.

I give up soon after realizing he was unmoved by my bout and continue sobbing, still entrapped in his arms. I want to hold him, to welcome his warmth. I want to cry into his chest, while he comforts me and strokes my hair. I want him to tell me it's going to be alright, just like the old times.

_Just as the old Peeta would._

His hold loosens once he's convinced I've stopped fighting back, and when I don't react, lets go completely. He walks to the kitchen and returns with a broom and sweeps the bottle slivers. I sit in front of the fireplace holding my knees closely to my chest, and shut my eyes, wishing this nightmare would end already.

Inhale. _This isn't real._ Exhale. _It's just another stupid nightmare._ Inhale. _You're gonna wake up any time now. _Exhale. _A harmless dream, that's all this is._ Inhale. _He's not coming back…_

I hear a faint crackle and my eyelids flutter open. With a start I see him a few inches in front of me, coaxing a fire from the ancient-looking pieces of wood. I sigh, annoyed my meditative exercise hadn't proved useful. He notices my frustrated expression and takes a seat beside me and joins my staring competition against the fire. I could tell I was winning.

"Hey." he says, without looking at me. I shut my eyes. _Fire wins again._

Inhale. _Definitely not real._ Exhale.

"You still think this isn't real, don't you?" he asks.

Inhale. _Wake up, dammit. _I exhale, ending up with a little bit more force than necessary.

"Don't." he says, attempting to grab my wrist away from my arm. I had unconsciously been pinching myself with uncut fingernails since who-knows-when. "Don't do that!" he says, suddenly angry. Finally opening my eyes, I see him tense as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Damn this." he mutters, rising.

"What?" I ask.

He gives me one last exasperated look before he's out the door.

Great. Once again, I'm alone with my misery.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thanks for the reviews! As you may already know, this is my first attempt at fanfiction. I write stories, but I don't exactly flaunt them so no one has read them except for me, myself, and I. I didn't expect people would pay much attention to this, so knowing that someone actually took the time to either read it, review, or put me on their alerts/favorites means a lot to me. Really. Ugh, this note was supposed to be short. Oh well. Thanks again!**

* * *

CHAPTER 3

"Go, Katniss, go!"

I'm running with weary and uncooperative legs in the woods, tripping over branches every few meters. I hear him continue to yell at me to escape and I steal a glance over my shoulder, in time to see Cato thrust his sword into him.

Right through his heart.

He crumples to the ground, and Cato smirks at me before breaking into a run after me. At bad timing as it is, I stumble over a thick root and fall, hitting my head on the ground. The sky's spinning along with the leaves above me, and I feel strangely assured by the fact that death is closely approaching. In fact, I welcome it. _He's dead anyway_, I think to myself. _Might as well go down that path myself._

"Any last words, sweetheart?" he asks. Not Cato. _Peeta. _His malevolent smile, his piercing blue eyes, the way he held the sword three inches above my heart. _This isn't Peeta. _And suddenly I feel him stab me, a freezing chill engulfing me, and I'm screaming my throat out.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Gasping for breath that continues to evade me, I open my eyes to bright, dizzying light. The throbbing in my head seems to have magnified from last night, but I find no reason why everything stinks of white liquor.

"At least she's awake now." a voice remarks. It takes a lot of effort to focus on his face expressing concern mingled with amusement, but when I do, I start screaming again. I try making a run for it but next thing I know, I'm retching painfully on glossy shoes. The world violently spins out of control and I hear a mild _thump!_ before everything fades to black.

* * *

"Damn girl, all covered in cuts with dried blood, scaring me to death. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Wake her up, obviously."

"Which I did."

"By pouring your last few bottles of booze on her? Wise, Haymitch."

"Well, it worked."

"And you'll have to suffer without alcohol until the next train."

"Or I could steal from you."

Laughter escapes him, and Haymitch joins along with a silent chuckle. It's the moments like these that should help me find peace, according to Dr. Aurelius. Silly, pointless conversations. But instead, I'm lying down pretending to be unconscious, not even part of the exchange. I sigh, opening my eyes. I find relief in the fact that the headache has significantly diminished. I sit up a bit hesitantly and notice a familiar-looking crate containing flasks of liquor on the floor beside Haymitch's feet.

"Hey, sweetheart. Care to join us?" says Haymitch, pointing to Peeta's crate. I wonder how he stole it from him.

Peeta glances at me with a melancholic smile. "You're awake." he breathes, whether out of relief or surprise, I'll never know. "Sae was starting to fret. You've been unconscious for five hours."

I nod at him, confused. The nasty smell of liquor still hangs in the air, even though I'm more than five yards from Haymitch. My hand reaches my nose to cover it but oddly enough, the stench worsens, leaving me choking.

Haymitch breaks into fits of laughter and Peeta attempts to stifle his own. I shake my head, concluding they've both gone mad. What a sad fate.

"I'll take credit for that." says Haymitch, still chuckling. "You were out cold, with bloody cuts all over you." he continues, pointing at me. He's right. My skin's decorated with fresh scratches obviously induced by my fingernails. Like I didn't already have enough scars to deal with. "I tried to wake you up but you wouldn't budge. So I poured booze on you. That did the trick." he says, smirking.

"He slapped you a few times, and you were still dead to the world. It was the only way." says Peeta in Haymitch's defense, seeing me stiffen with anger.

"And you let him?" I ask, furious.

"What else could he have done?" he shrugs. "We were scared shitless at the sight of you!"

Haymitch's laughter ceases abruptly. I glance at Peeta, and find his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, gazing at the glass in his hand with sudden interest

"Not real." I murmur. That concerned look in his face, even translated into words now, was surely a figment of my imagination. They've transformed him into an instrument, mechanical and unfeeling, save hatred for me. He doesn't _care_.

"Stop that!" he yells, shattering the glass on the table. It breaks in his hand, and blood immediately makes an appearance. He pretends otherwise, running his hands through his hair repeatedly until his blonde hair's streaked with red. "This is damn real!" he says, sounding as if he's trying to convince himself.

"What is?" I ask, incensed. The real Peeta wouldn't let anyone hurt me. The real Peeta wouldn't yell at me. The real Peeta wouldn't swear, especially not in front of me. The real Peeta wouldn't hate me so_passionately_. The real Peeta wouldn't hate,_period_.

"You tell me." he whispers. His fists are shaking and tensed, veins prominent in his fair skin. He scrambles out the door and the slam of the door is left resounding in the silence.

"Not my fault." says Haymitch. "I did Dr. whats-his-name a favor. Got that boy to laugh. Probably the first one since… well, you know since when."

"I didn't do anything." I mutter.

"You confused him. He's the one who was hijacked. He's the one who needs help. He's the one who needs answers, more so than either of us. And there you go shutting him out." he spits out, not bothering to hide his irritation. "He's _fighting_ it, Katniss. With every nerve in his body. Least _you _could do for him is to just acknowledge his existence."

"But he doesn't even talk to me!"

"He's just scared."

I snort loudly. "We've been through hell and back, there's no reason for him to be."

"Stubborn girl." he says, gritting his teeth. "He's scared of hurting you. Not rejection, heartbreak, or any other silly reason you conjured up in your head."

I gulp, feeling guilty that he's right. "I can't help him. You know I can't. He's going to ask me about things I don't want to remember, let alone describe in detail."

"Is the pain going to be more severe than what he's had to endure for you?" he asks quietly.

I rise and reach the door in a few strides, opening it to be hit by frosty wind. I slam the door behind me after hearing Haymitch mutter, "Didn't think so."

I hug my elbows close to me. _This is stupid, _I think. _Following advice from a drunken man who can barely walk three yards without stumbling._ Nearing his house, I hear crashes and suppose he's breaking more glassware. I kick a stone from the side of the road a little too roughly and it hits the trash can, causing it to fall over. The crashes continue, but with noticeably more urgency, as if anticipating my visit. Once on his doorstep, I take a deep breath. The door opens before I can even knock, leaving my fist hanging in the air. He's leaning on the door frame, his hair sticking together in odd places from the blood, and his shirt's streaked with it along with his exposed skin.

"What?" he snaps, as I take in his appearance.

"Nothing. Can I come in?" I ask.

"No." he says, slamming the door in my face.

"I need to talk to you." I say, banging the door with my fist. "I need you." I whisper. There's no response. I realize returning to Haymitch's house empty-handed would mean accepting defeat, and so would returning to mine. I sit on his porch, tightening my robe from last night. My fingers brush through the fabric, admiring the smoothness, until I reach an object of rough texture… _The letter!_

"Where were you when I needed you?" he murmurs. I jump in surprise and look up from the crumpled letter in my hands and see him seated against the railing, eyes shut, looking defeated.

"Look, Peeta I—"

"Don't." he says. "It's alright. You wanted to tell me something?"

"Yes."

He opens his eyes and I find them swollen and puffy. "Well?" he asks, still in that crushed tone.

"I-I know you're still trying to recover. I want to help you. I'll answer your questions, anything—"

"What else did Haymitch tell you to do?"

"What?"

"Haymitch put you up to this." he says, like he's stating a known fact. "You don't have to do what he says, Katniss."

"I know what I have to do!" I say a little too loudly, thinking how much I've failed him. Haymitch and I, we were supposed to protect him. We made a deal. They should've rescued him first. They shouldn't have let them capture him. They should've kept him safe.

He sighs. "Go home, Katniss." he says, standing up. "We'll talk about this when you're rested."

He offers me his hand, which I accept, to help me up. He gives my hand a light squeeze which I return. And suddenly I don't want to let go. Suddenly, I want him back. His words, his warmth, his presence; everything. Every single memory of him flashes through my eyes in full speed, and I know he's experiencing the same feeling when he tenses, lets go of me and slams the door without so much as a backward glance. Only they probably weren't happy memories, like what mine were, but flashbacks induced by the venom.

They've tainted the boy who was always just _too_ good.

Still clutching the letter, I enter my house. The mess is more obvious in daylight, but I don't feel like fixing things. _Just people,_I think.

I kick various objects out of my way to create a path from the door to the stairs. It's an improvement. Running up the stairs, I reach the storage closet that's supposedly for food, but we never really needed it so it's remained empty. I lock myself in and rip the letter open. I don't want to read it now, but I'm certain I'll never actually _want_ to read it, so it'll be best to get it over with.

_Katniss,_

_I know we haven't talked in a while. I don't know if you even consider me as a friend, but I do know you're one of mine. Perhaps the only one._

_I have a lot of questions for you. Some of them are silly, like the texture of Lady's collar, how your hair was done in the Reaping, the color of your dress in District 5. Some, maybe you've forgotten. The others concern sensitive topics, that I doubt you'd want to answer._

_I know you want to forget. So would I, really, but how can I forget what I don't know? You probably think it would be better that way, but when the venom's particularly resilient on some days, it tends to fill the blanks itself. The results are terrifying._

_I also know you don't want to talk to me. Haymitch says it's because I'm different from the Peeta you knew. I'm sorry. I really am, but I'm not going to force you to forgive me. I know for a fact that you like to get things done your way. I remember._

_I'm trying, Katniss. I want to be enough for you._

_You're all I've got._

_Sincerely,_

_Peeta_

A drop smears his signature, confusing me until I feel the moisture in my cheeks. I must have been crying, with his words ringing in my head. _I want to be enough for you. _I jam the closet door open with my elbow, frustrated at how his words are phrased. Like I'm too self-centered that I'll never be content with him.

I kick the door, but the force was too great, causing it to reopen. "Dammit!" I yell, at no one in particular. Tears steadily streaming down my face, I run down the stairs, sobs occasionally escaping me.

I gasp at the sight of my house. Clean as new would be an understatement. Clearly, it's neater than it has ever been in its lifetime, except maybe when it had been uninhabited. No glass shards in sight, no pieces of clothing strewn about, no books lying on their spines. The floor even looks sweeped, the walls dusted.

"Thought it needed some tidying."

I turn around and feel my eyes widen. He's sitting in the dining room—also extremely clean, by the way—with his knees casually bent, a cup of what looks like tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. Leaning over his sketchbook, still concentrated on his drawing and not even glancing at me, is Peeta.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in bewilderment.

He looks up at me, calculating my expression. I wipe away my tears, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I came to visit. But you weren't here, so I thought you were out in the woods. Figured I'd make myself at home until you came back."

"What are you drawing?" I ask, pointing to his sketchpad.

"Mostly doodles. They help get my mind off things."

I nod, not knowing what else there is to say. He senses my discomfort and looks thoughtful. The silence isn't awkward, but neither is it welcome. It's been several months and I feel like I have so much to say, but don't know where to start. I take a seat across him while he eyes the letter in my hand warily. I notice the scars along his arm and keep thinking, _That's my fault_. He sighs, before murmuring, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not being enough for you."

"Just shut up." I murmur, changing my mind. He chuckles softly.

He asks me if I have coloring materials around, so I grab them from my room where he last left them. He's drawn the Meadow, and I agree to help him color it. Reluctantly of course, since I'm no artist, and thoughts of mangled bodies fill my head.

"Katniss?" he says. I feel grateful for his presence, distracting my mind from becoming too morbidly imaginative, until I remember he's also caused it.

"Hm?" I say, looking up. He's genuinely smiling at me, and I look away almost instantly. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was the same Peeta who comforted me through the Victory Tour. The same Peeta who would've given his life up for me without so much as a second of hesitation. The same Peeta who loved me.

"We should do this more often. You know, hanging out."

He tucks a loose strand of my hair over my ear. "Okay." I whisper.

We finish coloring in silence. After an hour, we're done, his part of the work noticeably with better quality, though he assures me I did great. I didn't do that bad, but if I had to choose between this and gutting animals for a living, I'd choose the latter one hands-down, even considering salary and convenience.

Greasy Sae comes soon after we've cleaned the table from crayon residues, which are all my fault, since I somehow can't keep the crayon on the paper. She doesn't seem the least bit surprised seeing him here, only giving a slight nod as a greeting. He smiles in return, and asks her how he could help.

Together they prepare dinner, as they also engage in conversation about the town's rebuilding. I feel like a kid, being taken care of whilst having nothing to do, but I figure I grew out of my childhood too soon after my father's death. I crossed out depending on such fickle people a long time ago, that I only realize now how much I miss it even though I know I shouldn't. Peeta could still be taken away from me. I shouldn't get too attached.

The food's great, even though the meat isn't as fresh as my game would be. Still, it feels so long ago since I've had human interaction like this, that it probably affects my taste. Must be something psychological.

All too soon the food's finished, the dishes washed and dried, the table clean. Sae bids us goodbye, and I actually smile at her. The smile feels so foreign, having not worn one in months, but I feel much less burdened than I did a day ago.

Peeta gathers his sketchbook, leaving his coloring materials on my desk. He glances at me and smiles. "I'll be back tomorrow, if you don't mind." he says. "It's been nice to have some company."

I nod at him once, and he's out the door. I know I wouldn't be able to turn him down. Not tomorrow, not the next, not even on a particularly rough day.

He's all I've got.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N This chapter's so late and I cannot express in words how truly sorry I feel, but nevertheless, I apologize. I had to visit some relatives who live a thousand miles from where I do for a few days, and I was so exhausted that I didn't have time to finish this, but I did try bit by bit. But now I'm back. I know, I know, this chapter's a bit short for my (and maybe your?) taste. But I can assure you I've already started on the next chapter. You can expect it in a few days. Anyways, an advanced Happy Mothers' Day to all! :D**

**Enjoy. :)**

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4

The shrill ring of the telephone startles me from my thoughts. I nearly fall off the chair, but Greasy Sae catches me in time. Normally, I'd ignore the telephone, unplug its cable from the socket if ever the caller's persistent, and resume my activities. But this morning, I received a letter from my mother telling me she'd call tonight. She said she had tried to call the whole week but found the operator telling her the number she's trying to reach is out of service instead. I ran and held the phone to my ear, but no dial tone could be heard. After a few minutes of observation, I discovered the cause—an unplugged cable.

Ever since I read her letter—which Sae forced me to do, because the moment I recognized her handwriting I gasped and dropped it as if it could potentially burn me—I've been fidgeting nonstop. Numerous times have I found myself biting my nails out of anxiety. I tried to end the strange habit, but gave up on the seventh occasion. Apprehension replaced hunger, and I stubbornly refused to eat anything for fear of throwing it up. Eventually, I became exhausted of Sae's coaxing and allowed her to spoon-feed me.

The phone continues to ring, and I stare at it for what seems like an eternity before Sae pushes me in its direction. I take my time trying to calm myself, taking deep breaths, knowing my mother wouldn't give up so easily now that she's certain my telephone isn't broken after all. And finally with shaking hands, I pick up the phone.

"H-Hello?"

"Katniss?" replies my mother. She sounds concerned, if that's even possible.

"Yes, it's me. I got your letter this morning."

"How are you? How's Peeta?"

"I'm doing great. How's District Four?" I ask, desperate to change the topic. I haven't seen Peeta since the day we colored. He never did show up the next day. Or the day after that. And I loathed him, for getting my hopes up, for lying to my face, for implying that we could be friends.

"It's better." she says quietly, and I'm certain what the comparison's against. I know she'll never be able to set foot in this Twelve again, let alone my house. And I know it's because this place holds memories too painful to remember. "The people have been very welcoming. I think it's because healers are very rare, even with all the trainees…" she trails off, and I realize where her thoughts have led her.

"I miss her." I say, my voice cracking.

"Me too." she says, choking back a sob. "She would've been a great doctor."

We spend the next hour crying, and however unintelligibly it seemed, I felt a deep connection to her that was never present before. Similarly to how I clung to Peeta, because he was the only one who could ever understand the outcome of facing the horrors we have, I hold on to her because only she could feel the pain that I do, after losing someone as innocent and as beloved as Prim.

We weep for our losses—for her, for my father—andwe both know if only there were still here, they'd be mighty proud of us. I can only wish that I could hear them say it would besaddening to think so, but they were both better people than I and frankly, if they had survived instead of me, it would've been for the better. I have far too much arrogance and a hell of a lot of pride. And everyone who has lasted through the war would agree with me saying we've had enough of that for a lifetime.

I hang up the phone, after I bid her farewell and promise to keep in touch. Thankfully, she dropped Peeta. I miss him too, I admit, but elaborating further on his condition wouldn't help me forget him. _As if I ever could._

Grabbing my sweater, I get out of the house and take in lungfuls of fresh air. It's liberatingly sweet, reminding me of Prim. _She's in a better place now, _I think. Tears don't spill anymore just whilethinking about her, maybe partly because I have none left, but for once, I feel hopeful. I have welcomed grief for far too long. I'm hopeful recovery will soon take its place.

A light turns on in his house. I decide to check up on him just to ease my worry and slowly tread the path that leads to the house. I owe him for things I could never, even in a thousand lifetimes, make up for. If he's avoiding me, I'll leave it at that; if not, I'll have to try and help him and act as if I'm willing.

I knock on his door once. "Peeta?" I say. It's shivering out here, and I'm grateful I had the presence of mind to bring a sweater, though it's the thin kind. Twice. Still no answer. Thrice. "Peeta?" I repeat. Impatience is replaced by concern, and soon after, worry. I bang on his door with my fist continuously. "Peeta, answer the door!" I shout. "Peeta!"

I hear a resounding crash, quickly followed by a curse. The door roughly opens and smashes into the adjacent wall. He's only in jeans, with disheveled hair and a bleeding foot. I had continued to knock, and now he holds my wrist firmly to stop it from doing so, but from the look on his face he's equally startled as I am.

"What are you doing here?" he says quietly, not quite matching the brusqueness of his actions.

I squirm from his tight grip, but he doesn't release me. "Visiting a friend."

He cocks his head in Haymitch's direction, who until now I hadn't noticed was seated on his porch. "Wrong house." says Peeta, while Haymitch salutes us with his flask of liquor when he notices me eyeing him.

I roll my eyes, and let myself in. For a second, I fear that he'll push me out of the house and slam the door in my face but when I turn around, he's leaning on the already-closed door with his arms crossed,eyeing me warily.

"What?" I snap.

"I'm your friend." he says slowly, tasting the words. He sighs, while scratching the back of his head. "I hate to break it to you, but you can't force yourself to be someone's friend."

"Oh, I'm sorry." I scoff. "I'm obviously unworthy of your friendship. Should I make an appointment with your secretary?"

"I meant you don't have to be my friend just because you're being coerced to." he grimaces. "The Katniss I knew wouldn't let anyone tell her what to do." he adds, shaking his head.

"Who said I was being _coerced_?" I say, adding the last word with mock enthusiasm. "This was my own decision." I say stubbornly, stomping my foot in frustration.

He grins at me. "There's my Katniss."

I watch his expression for any signs of his flashbacks, but his grin remains unfaltering. He called me his Katniss. _His_ Katniss. My shock must have registered on my face because he unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in his pockets uneasily.

He strides towards me and touches the end of my braid. "My Katniss." he whispers.

His face is mere inches from mine, and I can strongly smell his scent; cinnamon and dill. I turn away from him and stare at my feet, fearing I'll do something irrationally impulsive.

"Your foot." I gasp, remembering his injury. The blood has soaked through the hem of his jeans. I crouch down to inspect the damage, grateful for an excuse to avoid foolish behavior.

"It's alright, Katniss." he sighs. I prod his toes, and judging by the sharp intake of breath he takes, it isn't.

Straightening up, I offer him my hand. "Let's fix you up, shall we?" I say. He takes it, though hesitantly, and I lead him out of his house. I don't check if Haymitch is still on his porch, but closing my front door silents a sound, which I'm positive was a boisterous chuckle, from his direction.

I seat Peeta on my kitchen counter and take the first-aid kit from the cabinet. It's dusty, after months of non-usage, but still complete with all the basic necessities. I use the pincers to dislodge broken shards from his foot, and after many agonized groans and choice swearwords from his lips, I apply disinfectant and wrap his foot with bandages.

"Thanks." he murmurs, while gazing at me intently. I resolve staring at a particularly grisly cut on his chest. My mouth falls open after realizing it isn't the only one. Every other inch of his skin is filled with abrasions that I can't believe I hadn't noticed it earlier. They look rather fresh, I'd say less than a week old, and mostly swollen from infection.

"What?" he asks, with a hint of smugness. Heat floods my face, and I realize he must have mistaken my reaction for ogling at his bare torso.

"What the hell were you thinking?" I ask quietly as I can, attempting to suppress anger. A look of confusion spreads throughout his face. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, cutting yourself? You think that's going to be any help? Well sweetheart, I hate to break it to _you_, but it damn won't!"

"What—"

"Can you imagine if one day, I come to visit you, and instead find your mutilated, lifeless body on the floor? I bet you wouldn't care, would you, you inconsiderate bastard!" I end up screaming at him, my fists resisting the urge to hit him.

He wipes tears I was unaware of from my cheek."You're concerned for me." he states with a stupid grin plastered on his face.

"Shut up." I grimace, smacking his hand away. He continues to watch me as I raucously rake through the contents of the cabinet beside his head, looking for an ointment to heal his cuts, and partly taking out my frustration at inanimate objects.

"Careful with your mouth." he murmurs after I proficiently utter continuous indecent oaths, as the salve remains evasive. And with a smirk he adds, "Save it for bedtime."

Unruffled by his allusion, my fingers finally find the ointment. I shamelessly dab a large portion of it on the first cut I see, and I'm rewarded with satisfaction when he emits a pained moan.

"That stings, Katniss." he growls, and I chuckle in reply. I reach my hand forward to apply some more of the cream, but he grabs my wrist and holds my gaze. I start to protest when he pouts and begins to whimper pathetically, and I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.

"I'm all right, really!" he says, coming down from the counter. "Just—just don't let that cream anywhere near me!" he throws his hands up in the air from exasperation, and I can't help the laughter that escapes from my lips regarding how ridiculous he's acting.

I don't remember the last time I've laughed like this, if I ever have at all, but I do know I've never felt this at ease with it, like it was natural, almost automatic. He stops dead in his tracks, and runs his hand through his hair before turning around to face me with an ear-to-ear grin.

"I forgot to thank you." I say, avoiding his gaze.

"For what?"

"Preventing my house from becoming a trash-hole."

He chuckles. "Pleasure. I don't think Haymitch's house needs competition."

I smile at him, but notice he's still watching me, causing me to awkwardly shift my weight. "Peeta?"

"Hm?" he says, closing in the distance between us, and we're back to where we started.

"Why didn't you come?" I murmur too softly, that I wonder if he heard me. "For dinner, I mean."

His forehead creases as his smile falters. "Flashback." he whispers.

"So?" I ask, suddenly irritated.

He looks taken aback. "I had a flashback, Katniss. I could have hurt you." he frowns.

"You stood me up." I say, glaring at him.

He smirks. "If it makes you feel any better, then I'm sorry." he says with a mock curtsy.

I give him a light push, before returning to the counter. He groans, seeing me pick up the medicine for his cuts. "Come on, Peeta, don't be such a baby." I say. "It's just a little ointment."

"They'll heal naturally." he mutters.

"They're already infected. They'd only aggravate with time." I say, rolling my eyes.

He huffs and resumes his seat, before crossing his arms. "No." he mumbles.

I laugh, but pass it off as a cough when he raises his eyebrows at me. "You're acting like a spoiled brat."

It's his turn to roll his eyes. "Look who's talking. _'You stood me up.'_" he mimics me, with a nauseated look on his face. "Don't even get me started on how you stomped your feet this morning."

He stares me down when I start to glare at him. He gives up eventually and sighs defeatedly. "Let's get this over with."

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**Don't forget to review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Summer's ending in 10 days! In my country, at least. I'm really panicking, because I go to an advanced school and during weekdays I hardly have time to do anything else. So I sort of wanted to end this story by the time school starts, but I don't see that happening any time soon, considering the situation Peeta and Katniss are still in right now. Ugh. I also started working on a one-shot, where Peeta and Katniss are eight-year-olds. I won't spoil though. ;) But anyways, I hope you enjoy this!**

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5

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Surprisingly, I spent more than two hours applying cream on all his cuts, which spared not even his legs. He admitted their presence to me, and I was confused with the smirk he wore until I realized he had to take off his pants in front of me so I could treat them. He was disappointed when I handed him a towel to wrap around his waist over his underwear, before laughing at me when I turned around to let him strip.

He replies with a grimace, now lying down from the medicine's side-effects, and I pat the hand resting on his stomach to reassure him. He takes my hand in his and interlaces our fingers while I stare at him in astonishment. He beckons me to lean closer to him and I follow hesitantly, speculating whether the ointment might possibly have delirious side-effects. He lets go of me and lets his hand rest on my waist, as I anxiously await the next of his actions.

"Closer." he murmurs.

With our noses only inches apart, I shut my eyes and anticipate the impending kiss. My mind barely has time to decide if the kiss is wanted or not when I start laughing…reflexively. _Reflexively?_ Then I feel it.

"Peeta!" I exclaim, distancing myself from him, though it proves to be no avail as he sits up and starts to use both his hands. "Stop it; you're tickling me!" I say, in between fits of laughter.

He laughs along with me. "What else could I be doing, Katniss?"

He chases after me when I run away, and I end up trapped in the corner of my own living room. I continue swatting at his hands, but he eventually catches my wrists and holds them above my head using only one hand. He tickles me to no end with the other before I accidentally kick his prosthetic leg and we both topple over, with his almost-naked body under mine, since his towel has mysteriously disappeared. He rolls us swiftly until our positions have interchanged while his grip on my wrists remain.

He rests his head on my shoulder, his face covered by my hair, as we try to catch our breaths. I feel him smiling, and it's only then that I realize I'm doing the same. The smile feels too wide, too uncontainable, too overpowering, but besides that it feels _right_.

He lets go of his hold on my wrists and raises his head to look at me. We're grinning like fools, and he stares at me like I'm the only thing that matters. I can't return it, so I just push him off me, his chuckle echoing in my ears.

"Er, Peeta?" I ask, after we've sat up.

"Yes, Katniss?"

"You should grab some pants."

He stands in front of me and places his hands on his hips. "Why, am I distracting you?"

I smile to myself, remembering a similar conversation I had with a friend. But it's Finnick, and he's gone now. _To a better place_, I add, to prevent myself from falling back to the dark pit of despair. I repeat the habit of shaking my head to ward off any miserable thoughts.

"Need some help?" asks Peeta, offering me his hand. I take it, without wasting a second of hesitation this time, and he helps me up.

I walk back to the counter, dizzy from all the activity. After stashing the supplies messily back in the cabinet, I turn around and find Peeta behind me, leaning on the dining table, grinning and still clad in his boxers.

"Peeta." I say.

"Katniss." he replies, tauntingly.

I exhale in frustration and look away. "Alright, alright, I'm going." he says, laughing.

I turn to find him bending over to pick up the towel from the floor, before wrapping it around his waist. Smart. Haymitch would give both of us hell if he sees Peeta walking out of my house in only his underwear.

I toss the blood-stained pants in his direction, silently hoping it hits his face. Unfortunately, he catches it before it does. "And Peeta?" I call. "A shirt would be lovely."

He halts at the doorway. "I thought you preferred this?" he teases, motioning to his bare chest. He closes the door, not before releasing a whole-hearted laugh.

I'm exhausted, what with all the pent-up emotions I finally let loose today. I've cried out the tears from my system, I've laughed out the breath from my lungs, I've smiled out the muscles from my aching cheeks. I regret nothing.

I slide down the kitchen wall and end up seated on the floor. With eyes closed, I take deep breaths. I know for a fact how muddled emotions can be overwhelming; it's the reason why Dr. Aurelius insists on developing a routine. Which I had successfully done—until Peeta returned.

A knock on the door interrupts my meditative thinking. Strange. It's unlocked; surely Peeta knows he has my permission to come in any time he fancies it? _He's just messing with you_, I tell myself. _Heaven knows you could use some physical exertion._

I open the door, not expecting what I find—a young, dark-haired girl. Relief quickly follows surprise at seeing Symae, especially so at the brown paper bag she holds in her hands.

She smiles at me tentatively. "Gran couldn't come today, so she sent me to deliver these."

"What's wrong? Is Sae sick?"

"Oh, no. She just had some business to attend to with the Maclares." she says, shrugging. "Something about renovations for the Hob, I think."

"Glad to hear it. Really, she shouldn't have gone through all the trouble for me." I quip, but my stomach grumbles in disagreement. "Thanks, Symae." I laugh, relieving her hands of their load, and it's only then that I notice there are two packs. Not even someone as famished as I am at this moment could consume them both. In fact, one pack could feed me for a whole day, judging by its contents.

She expected the surprise apparent on my face, and offers me a knowing smile. "Gran had a feeling." she says, before backing out of the path to the village street.

I sigh, amazed at how predictable I've become. _Stupid routines_, I think, even though it's the fact that I didn't follow one that caused this. I swing the door to shut it, but the act's obstructed. I slam the door again, and I hear a yelp in response. I open the door to a fully-clothed Peeta, clutching his hand where bruises have started to form.

"I am so—"

"Don't bother, Katniss." he says, with a strained smile. I hold the door open for him, nervously fidgeting with the knob. Splotches of purple have started to appear near his knuckles.

"I didn't see you." I say.

He walks to the refrigerator, pulling out a tray of ice. After cracking out a few cubes, he wraps them in a piece of cloth and holds them to his hand. "Sorry. I saw Symae walking away though."

"She brought these." I say, dropping the bags on the table.

His eyes light up, amused. "Dinner? I'm starving. How'd Sae know I was here?"

I shrug. "No idea. Haymitch?"

We laugh, because it's absurd enough if Haymitch ever went out as far as 10 yards from his front door, let alone take a trip to town.

I set the table, insisting that Peeta should rest his injured hand. Mentally, I make a note to later search the medicine cabinet for something to heal bruises. The ice cubes don't seem to help, since he doesn't bother to obtain new ones from the refrigerator. He pokes the purplish-blue skin and my suspicions are confirmed as his face grimaces in pain.

I plop the food on our plates—ground beef enclosed in flour wrappings, lamb chops, a few cream muffins each. Its aroma's sufficient to cause anyone to salivate. I gather a spoonful of beef and place it in front of his mouth.

He eyes me with disbelief. "What are you doing?" he asks, trying to pry the spoon from my fingers. I know it's a failed attempt when he groans, and his hand's back down in his lap, being cradled by the other.

I glare at him. "If you move your hand again, I swear I'll eat all your food."

The warning works; he must really be as famished as I am, if not more. "So, what? You're gonna spoonfeed me?"

I roll my eyes. "Open up." I say in a singsong voice, moving around the spoon in front of his face.

He raises his eyebrow provokingly, before pursing his lips into a hard line. I shove the spoon to his lips, attempting to open them. He won't budge, as made clear by the way he shakes his head tauntingly.

"I give up." I snap, dropping the spoon angrily on his plate, causing pieces of food to splatter on the table. I take my plate and eat ravenously while facing the opposite direction.

He releases his previously withheld laughter, seeing the threat has surrendered. "Slow down, you'll get indigestion."

I ignore him, continuing to devour slice after slice of lamb smothered in spiced gravy. Remembering to take deep breaths to avoid heartburn, I steal a glimpse in his direction, seeing his left hand doing all the trouble of feeding him, though slowly. Evidently, it isn't a pace he would prefer considering his state of hunger.

I smirk when I finish, licking my spoon in front of him to press my point, and head to the sink. After, I resume my seat and observe. He's noticeably struggling to keep his wounded hand from moving on impulse.

I sigh dramatically, and it catches his attention. "You know," I say, throwing my feet up on the table in arrogance. "All you need to do is ask."

He huffs, sounding affronted. "I think you and I both know that isn't happening."

"Watch your pride, Mellark. It won't get you anywhere. Especially with the lack of food in your system." I say, pointing to his almost-full plate.

"Oh, Everdeen, I think I can manage." he says with a wink.

"Suit yourself." I say, rolling my eyes for what seems like the umpteenth time. I pick up a book resting on the nearest desk and succumb to the story. Not revolving around romance; reminds me too much of pretend-lovers and false acts of affection. Not too daring, not too bold; I've had enough adventure for several lifespans. Instead, tales of normalcy interest me; what life I could've had without spite, injustice, tragedy—or basically, without the Capitol's existence.

A distinct metallic clang interferes the dialogue, and just when it's started to get interesting. I sigh and put the book down, only to find Peeta's face contorted in pain, with the bruises in his hand appearing worse.

I dash to the cabinet, and luckily, find what I'm seeking. Gently, I apply the gel on his bruises, coating almost completely the back of his right hand. The cream itself doesn't sting, apparently, but prodding the welt with too much force does, as proven by his occasional gasps.

Once I'm satisfied with my work, I position the food-filled spoon a foot from his mouth, gauging his reaction. He stares defeatedly, knowing he has no choice. "Here comes the train." I say, letting the spoon soar to his lips. It reluctantly opens at the last second. _Bingo_.

I prepare the next bite as he chews, eventually swallowing. "Is the mollycoddling necessary? I mean, Katniss, I'm a—"

I don't find out what he is—or what he thinks he is—because I've shoved the spoon in his open mouth.

"Kagnith, weally! Thop it wight now—"

The image of his pitiful attempts to scold me, along with the bits of beef overflowing from his mouth, gives 'pathetic' a whole new meaning that I end up snorting in laughter. I pinch his nose so he'd be _coerced_ to swallow. So much for pampering him. "Ah, ah, ah. Manners, Mr. Mellark!" I say, mimicking Effie with bated breath.

I also cover his mouth in case he'd decide to spit the food out. He gives in, mercifully. The thought of him expelling his half-chewed food onto my hand doesn't exactly sound very appealing.

He's glaring at me firmly while I let go of both his nose and mouth. "Katniss, why the hell—"

"Shut up, Peeta." I say, struggling to keep on a straight face as I wipe the laughter-induced tears from my eyes. "I'm the one helping you; deal with it."

He regards me silently, weighing out the pretend-annoyance in my expression. "Dammit, Katniss." he mutters.

I internally smirk at his gullibility. "Chug-a-chug-a-choo-choooo."

* * *

"Gross, Peeta."

I groan, as he literally licks his plate clean without using his hands. He grins at me with his tongue skimming repeatedly across the plate and I shove him lightly by his shoulder.

When he's done looking like an idiot, he smugly hands me his plate. "I'd love to wash the dishes, but you know I can't." he said, pointing to his right hand.

I scowl, disgusted. So that's why he unnecessarily trailed his saliva along the plate. "You know I'll get back at you for this, right?"

He only winks at me and folds his arms haughtily behind his head as I trudge to the sink. Idle periods cause me to reflect, and being left alone with my thoughts used to be a bad thing. It often still is, on some days, but I'm too thrilled with the reconciliations I've made today that it doesn't bother me as much.

He makes me smile; there's no point in denying that. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows how much I need it. He teases me like we hadn't survived two Games, torture, and a war; he teases me like we're _normal._

He makes me want to live.

I don't think I've ever wanted to live, just for the sake of it. When my father died, I vowed I would keep myself alive to feed Prim. To keep _her_ alive. But it wasn't for me.

Several times have I thought about dying for Peeta, but never the opposite. He's broken too, just like me, maybe more.

And he needs my help.

He calls out my name from the living room, and I quickly finish drying the dishes, fearing a flashback.

Sounds emit from the television set as I find him seated on the sofa, frowning. "What—" I start, but the screen says it all.

It's showing a gaudily-dressed man speaking in the infamous accent seated in one chair, and Plutarch, who looks like he's enjoying his status, in the other. An interview, by the looks of it.

Peeta turns to me guardedly. "Haymitch told me something was going to be on tonight. He didn't tell me what it was going to be about though." he says, patting the seat beside him as an invitation.

I attempt to breathe calmly as I take a seat, but they all come out as ragged breaths. I see Peeta tightly clutching the armrest with his decent hand, waiting, just waiting for something to explain Haymitch's unease. I grab the wrist of his wounded hand, for leverage, but he firmly takes my hand in his wordlessly, and I am grateful. We need each other.

"—communication between districts is better than ever compared to the past, and it's been established that the new government will comprise of representatives from each district, and they will all have equal rights as to having a say with the law amendments, and to think—"

"Yes, yes, it's all very exciting, Mr. Heavensbee." interrupts the host, tapping his finger impatiently in his lap. He forces a grin. "But I think I speak for the whole country when I ask, how _is_ the Mockingjay? She shot the President, for goodness' sake! Trapped in solitary confinement for two months, and seemingly wiped off the face of the earth. You, being a very prominent person, would know how she is, wouldn't you?" he asks, hopeful.

Plutarch looks offended at the intrusion, but at the question his face lights up in excitement like a little child. "Of course I do, Aramis! Katniss and I are very good friends, and we often talk endlessly on the phone." I grimace. The phone _does_ ring endlessly—until I cut the line. "In fact, she's doing really well. She and Peeta spend a lot of time together, and I'm happy for them; the lovers whose stars have uncrossed."

"Will they continue the marriage?" asks Aramis.

Peeta's hand tenses, the veins dangerously daring to jut out of his skin. I knead his hand soothingly, coaxing him to relax.

"Certainly!" he exclaims, clapping his hands, and my progress with Peeta's hand evaporates. "They have yet to set a date, but I can assure you I'll be the first to know."

"When can we have the pleasure of seeing her?"

"She _did _promise me an interview…" he trails off, thoughtful.

My jaw drops open, and it's my turn to stiffen. Last time I talked to him was on the hovercraft on the way home from the Capitol, and however mentally disoriented I could've been, I think I'd remember if I made such a promise.

"I'll convince her, Aramis. I guarantee her presence in this seat by the end of the month." assures Plutarch, his eyes twinkling.

The screen fades to black, with Peeta's hand on the remote control. He slumps in his seat, running his hand once through his hair.

"The nerve of him—"

"Let's just forget about it." sighs Peeta. "He isn't worth it." he says, giving me a half-smile.

I nod, knowing he's right. I suppress a yawn with the back of my hand, feeling tired with all the day's doings.

"It's getting late. You should go to sleep." he murmurs, patting my hand.

I'm confused by his suggestion that I should sleep, in my own house. "Is your hand alright?" I ask.

He nods. "I have you to thank for that."

I ascend the stairs slowly, waiting for him to head home. I don't want him to leave, but it's too much to hope for.

"Oh, and Katniss?" he calls out, when I reach my bedroom door.

"Yes?"

"Can I sleep on your couch?"

I release the breath I had been holding. "Sure."

* * *

_That's it._

I've spent the last two hours tossing around, trying to sleep, when I decide to give up. I wonder how Peeta's holding up. I think I would've heard his footsteps if he ever decided to charge at me.

I make my way down the stairs stealthily, sneaking a peek at him. I'm surprised to find him seated on the floor by the fireplace, gazing stoically at the dancing flames.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, taking my seat beside him.

He jumps, startled, clearly broken from his reverie. "No, I—had a flashback." he whispers.

Things, definitely, weren't going to stay okay. I knew it, but it pained me to suddenly see him so miserable. "What triggered it?" I ask, matching his tone.

He shifts to face me. "I woke up in your house." he replies with scorn. But the contempt was directed at himself, not at me. He runs his hands through his hair, and I've learned it's something he does when he's distressed.

I place my hand in his back and try to pacify him. "I'm sorry."

I don't know what else to say. Silence rings deafeningly in my ears, and I feel like he must have a ton of questions for me. I owe him that much, don't I?

"Teal."

He stares at me uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"The color of my dress in District Five. It was teal."

He smiles, closing his eyes. He nods. "Yes. We had lamb stew with those strange yellow plums for dinner there. Real or not real?"

"Real."

"Katniss…" he starts.

"Yeah?" I say, when he doesn't continue.

He gazes at me helplessly, and I can see his eyes pleading for an answer. It must be a sensitive question.

"Did we ever.."

I sigh, letting my guard down. "Just say it, Peeta."

He looks down at his hands. "Did we ever sleep together?"

Oh. _Oh._

"N-no." I stutter, lowering my gaze to my hands as well. "Never."

"But weren't you pregnant?"

"No, you made it up to keep me alive." I reply, fiddling nervously with the end of my braid.

He reaches out and also starts toying with my hair. "Oh." he says, sounding disappointed. "I was sort of hoping that we did."

His remark catches me off-guard, and I take a sudden interest with the hem of my shirt. "Really?" I ask, softly.

He lifts my chin up to his level and grins. "Yeah." he says, before standing and laying back on the couch. He shuts his eyes, which must serve the purpose of dismissing me.

Instead, I lay beside him. His eyelids flutter open, and we stare at each other wordlessly. For now, there was nothing more to be said.

* * *

**I'm thinking of doing a Peeta POV for the next chapter... Should I?**

**Reviews would make my day! Seriously. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N This chapter's so long overdue. Ugh. First week of school over! It feels like it's been a month already. But anyway, go read! **

6

_I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever._

Even if it meant I'd be alone with this unconscious girl, appearing innocent in her slumber.

I risk her awakening as I stroke her hair—or rather, what's left of it—while I try to recall the feel of it against my fingers. She's as still as a wall, thank heavens, and I have no doubt that she hasn't been roused; otherwise, she would've made a run for it and locked herself in her room already.

I shift gently to face her—a difficult feat on a narrow sofa—before resting my decent hand on her waist, drawing circles on her clothed flesh with my thumb. I stare at her closed eyelids, wondering how long it would've lasted until I lost myself in her gaze, if ever they were open.

Holding her closer to me, I hide my face in her hair and close my eyes, breathing in her scent. The smell of the woods is lost; I always associated it with freedom, and knowing her present state, the analogy would be perfectly reasonable. Nevertheless, she smells familiar, giving me a timely sense of home.

My nose grazes down her throat, and I halt, when my lips are left within inches from her neck. Reason abandons me and I close the distance.

It feels normal.

I wonder if we used to do this.

I hold the back of her head, careful not to grip her hair in too firm a grasp. My lips are idle, resting on her neck, but I don't mind. I inhale her scent, but my muscles suddenly begin to tense at the horrific odor.

Ashes.

_She killed thousands of innocent people._

Withdrawing my hands from her neck before I lose control over my mind.

_She killed the people of my district._

Leaping far from the couch to satisfy the required distance to guarantee I can't hurt her.

_She killed my family._

Running hurriedly to the the bathroom before locking myself in.

_I'm next._

Thoughts wage war inside my chaotic head as I bite hard on my knuckles, stifling screams.

_It was all for the Games._

I taste blood but I don't allow my teeth to let go of my hand, hoping against hope that Katniss hasn't stirred.

_She lied to me so she could kill me._

My hands twitch uncontrollably, itching terribly to constrict around _her neck._

_She should be dead._

A disturbing image of my fingers around her neck, squeezing the breath out of her lungs, fills my thoughts.

_Kill her._

I run to the corner farthest from the door, not taking any chances for the venom to take over enough of me to bring me to the edge of instability and grant its murderous wish.

_Kill the damn mutt._

I pound my head hard against the wall a number of times, adequately causing me to pass out.

* * *

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_

"Please, stop." I gasp. She hits my head with a metal bar, over and over, until my face is a bloody wreck.

She ceases for a a second, hovering over me with a menacing leer. "No."

My fists clench, being held in handcuffs. Blinding pain engulfs me as blows continue to rain down on my face. "Katniss, please." I beg, my voice trembling.

Her laughter has never elicited from me hatred so deep, prior to that moment.

I feel my grip on reality loosen, and my hands reach out to her neck to encircle her throat.

I'm too far gone for awareness to reach me.

She stares at me with eyes dark of loathing, almost seemingly daring me to end her life.

But I can't.

So she laughs, and resumes whacking at my head.

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_

"Peeta! Peeta, open this door!"

"Open the damned door, boy, or I'm busting the hell in there!"

It's a struggle to breathe alone, feeling like I'm being robbed constantly of air. Spasms rack my body as I resist the impending flashback, with memories from yesterday's nightmare flooding my thoughts.

I grit my teeth through Katniss' concerned screams and Haymitch's daunting threats. "Go away." I croak.

"Peeta!" she yells frantically, banging her fist on the door, I'm assuming. She sounds hysterical, crying even.

A knife pierces through the door, and Haymitch hacks on the door until he's satisfied with the size of the hole he made. He reaches his hand through the hole and unlocks the door, before opening it.

I see Katniss slumped on the floor with her hand covering her mouth, muffling her sobs. She wastes no time and stumbles to close the distance between us. I flinch from her open arms, causing pain to register on her expression. She settles on wrapping her arms around her waist, a habit she follows to hold herself together, as I've observed.

A smile forms on her lips, and I feel sick. It's a forced smile, one of concealed pain.

_Does she really think I'd fall for that?_

She's still a bad liar, that's for certain. But not a mutt.

_She's not a mutt, dammit._

"S-sorry." I gasp, clutching on the towel rod to help me as I attempt to rise. Strength fails me and I topple over, only to be caught by Haymitch. He huffs at the sudden physical exertion required to lift me, but it seems that his age has deceived him after all.

He sets me down on the sofa, soaking in sweat and tears. Katniss hands me a glass of water from the kitchen, still keeping her distance, but the concern readable in her eyes. I want to tell her that I'm okay, that I'll be alright, that she shouldn't worry, but I can't.

I reach out for her hand, hoping through the simple gesture she would know what I'm trying to convey.

She squeezes my hand in response, with a genuine half-smile on her lips. "You should've woken me."

"You looked too peaceful to be disturbed." I whisper.

"Well, I'm not looking too peaceful now, am I?" she says, glaring at me.

With her disheveled hair, puffy eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks, she's about as peaceful-looking as I must be right now.

But there's no way I can ever be _that_ beautiful.

In fact, I don't think anyone can.

"Promise me you'll wake me, if that ever happens again." she pleads.

I sigh. "It would be more likely that I'd hurt you first." I mutter. Besides, I don't want her to see me as the Capitol-made monster that I am.

"I don't care. I can fight you, you know." she rolls her eyes.

I stare at her in disbelief. I almost _strangled_ her, for crying out loud. "I almost killed—"

"I was unprepared!" she cuts me off. "If I wasn't, I bet I could've stuffed my shoe up your—"

"Are you kidding? Even if I didn't have that damn venom, I could've easily taken you down. You wouldn't last ten seconds."

She scoffs. "Believe what you want, Mellark. I could fight you any day."

"You're on." I say, smirking.

Haymitch clears his throat, and I realize Katniss' face was mere inches from mine. She leans back in her chair, comprehending.

"Mentally disoriented idiots." he mutters as he shakes his head and makes his way towards the door. "You both better be alive when I get back!"

Katniss sighs, massaging my hand like last night. The feeling's so perfectly relaxing, that I close my eyes. "Peeta?"

"Mm?"

"I'm hungry." she says, her stomach growling right on cue. I grin, opening my eyes to watch her laugh, with her glee reaching her eyes.

I've missed her laugh.

"What time is it?" I ask, throwing the curtains aside to reveal a star-less sky.

"Five-thirty in the morning. Sae won't be here until seven." she groans in response.

I get up on my feet, holding my hand out to the arm of her chair to regain my balance after a head rush. "Do you have any food in the fridge?"

"No, I don't really need to. Sae does all the cooking around here." she says, taking my place in the sofa and closing her eyes. "Bacon and eggs would be lovely, Peeta." she added drowsily.

"How am I supposed to cook when you don't have food?" I ask incredulously. She doesn't reply, only smiling in her state of subconsciousness.

_Well._

I lift her from the couch and kick the front door open, trodding towards my house.

"What are you doing?" she asks. At least, that's how I interpreted her soft mumblings.

"Shh. Go to sleep." I whisper, setting her down on my couch. I head to the kitchen, grabbing a few eggs and strips of bacon on the way. I still have a few loaves of bread left over from baking out my misery the other day, and they're still fresh, fortunately.

Once the table is set, the food prepared, the hot chocolate perfectly brewed, I decide to rouse her. "I made breakfast." I murmur, in a sing-song manner. "Bacon and eggs, just like you said."

Her eyes snap open and she grins. Until she notices the collared shirts draped over the chair, the easel located at the corner, and the flipped paintings lying beside it. "How—"

I wink at her, causing an infamous scowl to reappear. "How about some breakfast?"

* * *

"Ready?"

We've finished the meal, contented with full bellies. Sae walked in on us a few minutes ago, and her laugh seemed to last forever, echoing from the walls even as she had already made her exit. She's probably glad to see Katniss up and running or relieved that she didn't have to cook this morning. Both, maybe.

Her question startles me, and worry pits in my stomach as I wonder if she had been talking to me and I hadn't been listening.

"I beg your pardon?"

She smirks, biting her lip. "I said, are you ready?"

I blink, perplexedly. "For what?"

"To lose." she grins mischievously.

I catch on, thankfully. "You were serious?"

"Of course I was! I'll prove you wrong, Mellark, mark my words. So, are you ready?"

It's my turn to smirk; it would be such a _pain_ to humiliate her. "I think I'll pass. It'd be an agonizing waste of my ten seconds, don't you think?"

"Coward." she taunts. "You know you can't beat me." she says with a sneer.

Oh, how she knows me so _well_.

We end up on the floor. I pin her arms above her head, my legs sprawled at each of her side. She snarls at me, thrashing around in an attempt to catch me off-guard.

It's of no use.

"One." I say, and she tries kicking me, but her legs can't reach any part of me that would provide adequate pain.

"Two." I say with a sudden grin, as she tries crawling out of my legs, but I free my other hand to hold her waist in place and her efforts are to no avail.

"Three." I say, laughing triumphantly as I release her.

Record-time of less than ten seconds.

But then she pounces on me, and our positions are reversed. She sits on my abdomen, using both of her hands to restrain each of mine. She doesn't place them over my head though, nor does she hold them together. _Big mistake._

I use my elbows for leverage at each side, and push off from them along with my feet. Four-corner maneuver. She falls off me, and our previous positions return.

"You don't play fair." I accuse.

"All's fair in love and war." she smiles.

I don't know which one she's referring to. I don't ask.

"I still beat you." I say instead, smirking.

She knees me in the stomach, consequently knocking out the breath from my lungs, and I rest my forehead on her shoulder as I try to catch my breath. She starts squirming but I only tighten the grip on her wrists, having no intention of letting her win.

"Dammit, Peeta." she snaps. "You're cutting off my blood circulation." she says, writhing beneath me.

"I know." I whisper to her hair, spread messily about her face.

She groans exasperatedly. "Fine. You win."

I grin, my lips making contact with her skin. "Sorry, what did you say?" I say, feigning deafness.

"You win, Peeta." she says, rolling her eyes. "You can let me go now." she adds, gesturing to her bound wrists.

I let my face hover an inch from hers, having no intention whatsoever to be the first to back down. "Make me."

She starts tugging on her arms desperately, as I in turn end up laughing at her face from her useless attempt. "Pathetic." I tease.

Then she does the unexpected.

She _kisses _me.

Damn.

* * *

**Suspense HAHAHA. ****More people suggested that I do Peeta POV, so here goes my attempt.** I'd love to hear what you think about it! Review, review, review !


	7. Chapter 7

**It has been roughly seven months since I last updated this. Whoops. Damn, I am so sorry. I really am. I know this chapter probably isn't going to suffice for the last couple of months, but I will try (_really _try) to update sooner. Okay, you might hate me by now but... I sincerely hope you enjoy this. If you do, please review and tell me all about it! If you don't, well, review all the same. :)**

* * *

I am nothing.

I feel nothing.

Nothing but her lips on mine, moving of its own accord, like they were _meant _for this purpose and this purpose only.

I wonder if we used to do this.

_Yes, _I hear a voice in my head say. _But it was all for the games, remember?_

My hands curl up into fists on the floor, fighting memories, fighting the past. I feel a flashback start to take me, where I am black and blue with bruises underneath her, where she has a wicked grin plastered on her face that speaks of nothing but malicious intentions, where she kisses me first only to hit me afterwards—

But I fight it.

I fight it for the hope, that someday, I won't have to.

I fight it for myself, because I'd rather be thrown in another Games than hurt her.

I fight it because I don't want the kiss to stop.

Our lips continue to entangle with each other, releasing feelings that we'd previously kept under heavy lock and key, behind guarded walls we painstakingly erected, knowing the impending danger if we hadn't.

I can feel hatred.

Hatred for the things that we were forced to go through, because it's so _unfair, unfair, unfair._ Hatred for the injustice that we worked so _damn _hard to overthrow, even though we both know the truth. We hate the fact that things will never be the same.

I can taste tears.

And then I realize we're both _crying._

We hold on to each other tightly, afraid to find out that none of this was actually real, afraid to wake up and realize that this was just a dream, afraid to know the pain we feel without each other.

Desperate.

She gives in first, and we both gasp for air sharply. I sit up, clutching my legs—and my sanity—together.

_Inhale._

It was real.

_Exhale._

She kissed me.

_Inhale._

I kissed her back.

_Exhale._

The kiss was amazing.

_Inhale._

I fought the flashback.

_Exhale._

"Did I win?" Her voice pulls me back to reality. _(That's right; it was real.)_ I turn to her and she grins widely.

The return smile comes naturally to me. Happiness is contagious, after all.

"You cheated." I say, raising an eyebrow at her. I reach over my hand to her face, tentative, as if I'm giving her an out. She doesn't flinch.

I use my thumb to wipe away a tear streak on her face.

"Did not." she snorts, touching her hands to mine, and cradling it between them.

"Did too."

"Did not!"

"Did too." I say, wiggling my eyebrows at her. She laughs and lets go of my hand, standing up.

"Whatever, Mellark."

I follow after her into the kitchen, as she fumbles through boxes of cereal and packets of microwavable food.

"Hungry already, Everdeen?"

"M'hmm."

"Didn't we just have breakfast?" I point out, laughing.

She turns to me and crosses her arms. "Tickling requires an ample amount of energy, you know." she says with a scowl.

I seat myself on a chair closest to her. "Say, was it the tickling that exhausted you, or what came after?"

She rolls her eyes at me and turns back to the shelves, but not before I catch her lips turn up in a smile.

I can't blame her; I'm grinning like a fool myself.

* * *

"What are your plans for today?"

She's seated at the couch, absentmindedly browsing through channels in the television. I'm drying the dishes that she washed, and even though we've already had our lunch, it's still only ten in the morning.

"I don't know; I was thinking of painting actually." I reply. It's not entirely true. I had no plans initially, but the smile on her face after the kiss was so breathtakingly beautiful that my hands itched for a paintbrush and a canvas. "What about you?"

"Nothing, really. I don't usually go out of my house… except these days." she says, trailing off. I know what she means, though. _These days. These days that we've been together, finding peace in each other's company._

I finish the dishes and set them up on the dish rack. "Don't you go hunting?" I ask.

She visibly stiffens, her finger pausing from the continuous channel changing, and we're stuck in a channel discussing the benefits of bull crap.

"No." she replies softly. "I haven't hunted since…" she pauses, looking wistful. She clears her throat after a few seconds. "Since I got here."

"Oh." I say, hesitating to continue the conversation. But I need to know, I need to understand_._ I need to _heal_. "Why?"

She fumbles with the hem of her shirt, biting her lip. "It reminds me of things."

I sit beside her, wondering if it would be okay to hold her. I used to do it, I'm certain of it. But it's different now, isn't it?

Sometimes it would be okay to not care. Sometimes it would be okay to guard yourself, knowing you'll prevent yourself from getting hurt.

But sometimes you just have to accept that things have changed now, that things are never going to be the same.

Different doesn't have to be bad.

I lean closer to her and stroke her hair gently. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I sense her relax.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"Ask me something."

My hand freezes in mid-air, on its way to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. "What do you mean?" I ask, although I know exactly what she means.

She raises her head to look at me, and her gaze pierces me, making me feel exposed.

Vulnerable, even.

"About what's real and what isn't." she says, her voice defiant. It's as if she's trying to convince herself that she wants this, that she wants me to ask her questions about the past that she has tried so hard to bury under layers of indifference.

I know she doesn't.

I sigh, withdrawing my hand from her hair. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Peeta, I want to _help _you." she insists.

"No, you don't. You just feel like you _have _to, like it's your responsibility, but you don't _want _to. See the difference?" I reply, running my hand distractedly through my hair. "It's alright, Katniss. Really." I ass, seeing her mouth start to open and utter a retort.

She glares at me, her eyes the same shade of gray I lost myself to love back when we were five years old; her eyes the shade of gray that I have grown to know and love, just as naturally as a lion cub learns to familiarize itself with the scent of its mother.

"Fine. You're right. I don't want to remember." she says, rising from her seat. I would have honestly thought she was giving in—which Katniss never does, mind you—if it weren't for the fire in her eyes, the indignation in her clenched fists. "But I want _you_ to remember. I want you to remember how much I cared; I want you to remember how much I _suffered_, thinking I'd never see you again."

Her breaths are shaky and I know she is close to tears. "It's the least I could do," she continues, "for everything you've ever done for me." Her voice cracks at the last word, and she holds her arms tightly at her waist, like she's literally holding herself together. Tears leave tracks down her cheeks, but she refuses to wipe them, just like how she always used to refuse admitting to weakness.

_Girl on fire, flame reawakened._

I hold my head in my hands, with her words reverberating in my head.

I did everything out of love for her; she does it out of guilt.

It should frustrate me, I realize, but I know better. This is her way of showing emotion, and I have learned to accept it long ago.

"I just don't want you to do it if you're only going to end up locking yourself in your room and shutting me out again." I mutter.

I feel, rather than see, her sit beside me. Her hand reaches out to my hair, to flatten the strands sticking out, probably. "You know I can't promise you that I won't."

_Why not? _I wanted to ask. _Why do you have to push me away all the time?_

But what's the point of asking something that you know will always remain unanswered?

"I don't want to risk it, then."

"What's more important to you, me or the truth?" she exclaims, flailing her arms, obviously frustrated. I glare at her, because is the answer not_ obvious_?

"Okay, forget it. Forget I asked that." she says, rolling her eyes. "Just, why can't you understand? I want to _help _you; I want you to recover just as much as you do, and—"

"I get it." I cut her off. "Let's do it tomorrow, okay? I don't think I can do it right now."

She scowls, but I know she's satisfied. "Fine. Whatever." Her stomach grumbles mid-sentence, and we both grin, falling back into an easygoing manner. It's not difficult, surprisingly. "How about some dinner then?"

* * *

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